


Love to Hate you

by Hatsepsut



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angry Sex, F/M, Rivalmance, Rivarly, Smut, Violence, fight, furious sex, sex on the floor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 13:17:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3938209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatsepsut/pseuds/Hatsepsut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris and F!Mage Hawke have an uneasy, strained relationship; three years have almost passed since the night they had together, and they just can't see past their differences. When she shows up in his mansion and tries to heal him against his wishes, all the tension and frustration between them is unleashed.<br/>The result? Glorious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love to Hate you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Leitha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leitha/gifts).



> This is for my friend Vhelan, who wanted to see a fight between a rivalmanced Fenris and Hawke, that escalates into hot, steamy sex. She goes by the name of Leitha on this site.
> 
> Vhelan promised and delivered an amazing artwork of my Hawkelings, from Finally Together, Birds of a Feather. But this had been promised long before that, I couldn’t resist, the prompt was so ...delicious.
> 
> Can’t...resist...ngh....have to ...write...more smut.
> 
> Vhelan, my friend, I hope you enjoy this.

“Fenris! FENRIS!”

 

He heard her voice bellowing out his name and growled in irritation. What did the thrice-damned mage want of him again?

 

She burst through the door, dressed in the same blood splattered robes she had been wearing hours ago, when their group had annihilated a whole clan of Dalish elves. He took one look at her, at her furiously angry eyes that were sparkling like yellow diamonds and he wearily sighed to himself, before dipping the rag in the water in the basin again and holding it on his still bleeding wound.

 

“Leave me be, Hawke,” he grunted. “I am in no mood for you right now.”

 

“You bloody, blighted, damned stubborn elf!” she wailed, beyond incensed at the sight of the gaping wound on his shoulder, where a sword had managed to tear into his flesh, and the various other smaller nicks and cuts along his torso.  “You freaking idiot! Why didn’t you stay for healing?”

 

“It is but a flesh wound.”

 

“Flesh wound, my ass!” she sneered as she came closer. “That sword went clear to the bone. Here, let me...”

 

He jerked away, just as her hands were beginning to glow faintly blue.

 

“Get your filthy magic away from me, mage!” he spat, irritated with the slow, soft tingling his markings gave off at the mere presence of her magic. It wasn’t painful, far from it; if he was being honest with himself, her magic had always had a pleasant, nearly pleasurable effect on the lyrium lines etched in his skin. That of course only served to infuriate him more; he didn’t want her magic to feel like that, warm and soothing and almost caressing. It would have been so much easier if it had caused him pain. Damn, damn, damn her! Why did she have to confuse him so?

 

“My magic is _not_ filthy,” she smiled sarcastically before rounding on him with determination in her eyes. “I scrub it every day. Twice on Sundays.”

 

Fenris threw the bloody rag on the floor, irritation mounting in him. Damned stubborn mage!

 

“Sarcasm is the wit of idiots,” he offered his own cynical half smile.

 

She was closer now, her hands again raised and magic humming around her fingers.

 

“You would know,” she mumbled and he rolled his eyes. “Just let me heal you,” she insisted and Fenris narrowed his eyes and took one step backwards.

 

“Maker be my witness, Hawke, if you use magic on me I will strike you down,” he hissed, watching her hands like they were about to grow fangs and take a bite out of him. “I do not need your assistance. I don’t want this foul ‘gift’ of yours on me.”

 

Hawke took a deep breath, trying to control her temper. “Right. Because what does magic touch that doesn’t spoil, yes?” she bitterly said, averting her eyes to hide the pain that memory had brought on. And what had followed it, that very night. She suddenly felt tired, so very tired. “Okay, Fenris, bleed out on the floor if you so wish it. Maker forbid we should taint you with my magic.”

 

“Oh, spare me Hawke,” he growled. “Spare me the wide-eyed hurt routine. I am not convinced. I saw you butcher a whole clan of elves hours ago, cackling like a mad magister.”

 

She visibly recoiled for a second, before a hard glint started shining in her eyes. “What was I supposed to do?” she bristled. “Offer my neck up for slaughter? Let them kill us all?”

 

Fenris took a menacing step forward, his fists again clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. “You were supposed to head my advice that the blood mage is dangerous, and remove her from your group! You were supposed to do something about that blasted abomination you keep dragging behind you! You were, and still are, supposed to acknowledge how dangerous magic is!”

 

“And do what, exactly, Fenris?” her voice was now cold, and her posture just as tense as his. “Throw Anders to the templars? You have no idea what they had done to him, how terrified he is of ending up in their ‘tender’ care again.” She started pacing in front of the fireplace. “Was I supposed to kill Merrill? Turn her in for execution? She is naïve and misguided, but a good soul. A good friend that has always had my back. That is more than I can say for some others.”

 

She whirled on him then and held his gaze. “ What would you have me do, Fenris? Turn myself in? Would you have enjoyed the sight of me with a tranquil mark upon my forehead? Would that have made you happy?”

 

Fenris’ shoulders lost a bit of their rigidity at those words. No, he would not enjoy that. There was no need to even ask himself that question, he didn’t even have to imagine it to be filled with horror. Hawke without her humour, without the warm but often misguided compassion in her eyes....no, it didn’t bear thinking.  Hawke with those empty, soulless eyes, with that monotone drawl, peddling her wares in the Gallows courtyard... He felt a shiver run down his spine at even the thought of it.

 

And then the fact that he felt that way for a mage infuriated him even more.

 

“It would,” he replied, lying through his teeth, desperately hiding behind a wall of anger and bitterness to avoid showing, and feeling, those accursed tender feelings for her. “At least you would not pose a threat to others.”

 

She drew back as if she had been slapped.

 

“You bastard!” she hissed a moment later, her eyes hurt and indignant. “You heartless, sad excuse for a man. What have I ever done to you to deserve this...this hate?”

 

He was just about to throw another scathing retort to her, inwardly still cringing at the hurt in her tone, and feeling ten inches tall under her reproachful gaze, when she threw her arms in the air and huffed.

 

“Fuck this,” she growled. “I’ve had enough.”

 

Magic surrounded him and he found himself rooted to the spot. He tried to move, but his whole body had turned to a frozen statue. His vision turned red with rage as he realised what she had done: she had cast a paralysis hex on him. He could do nothing to stop her as she came closer and her hands starting glowing blue; he felt a slight twinge as the wound on his shoulder healed and the various small nicks and cuts disappeared from his skin.

 

“There,” she said, and brushed her hands on her robes. She leaned in and her hot breath fanned his sensitive ear as she taunted him. “Not much you can do now, is there, tiger?”

 

And she patted his head as if he was a petulant, stubborn child.

 

Rage, molten, hot fury erupted inside him; a red mist of hate and anger covered his eyes and his markings burst to life with a furious, blinding light. He roared, and Hawke drew back in alarm as the spell broke under his rage, and he could move again. She had no chance to defend herself; a quick backhand across her face send her flying backwards and she shrieked in alarm before landing at a heap across the wall.

 

She got up on wobbly legs and sent Fenris an incredulous look. Blood was running down the corner of her split lip; she tasted the sweet, coppery flavour. Her hand rose to her lip and she looked at the blood staining it as if she hadn’t seen it before, as if she were wondering what that red stuff was. She raised her eyes to the elf, now looking at her with murder in his eyes, poised to attack like a rabid wolf, his eyes narrowed and his lip curled in a snarl; they stood there for a few seconds that felt like an eternity, staring each other down, silently challenging each other.

 

“Did you just hit me?” she asked herself more than she asked him, shocked that he had raised his hand on her. She swallowed, hard. Fenris and her fought like cats and dogs but she had never believed he would ever, EVER, actually, physically hurt her. As the stinging pain on her cheek started registering, so did the fact that he had indeed hit her, that he had dared hit her, and she lost it. A wave of magic rose unbidden inside her to accompany the anger she suddenly felt infuse her whole body, and before she had a chance to rethink what she was doing a huge fireball was already whooshing though the air in his direction.

 

It was like Fenris had been expecting a signal and that had been it. He erupted into movement, effortlessly avoiding her fireball and gliding across the floor with that unnatural,  smooth speed of his. She had just one second to appreciate his swiftness and agility; it was as if there was a secret, detached part of her mind that despite her anger and frustration with him could always appreciate the way his body moved, the way his muscles rippled. She had one second, just one, but that one second was enough to make her body heat in response to the way his moved; liquid, effortless grace, like that of a natural born predator.

 

But the moment when she was frozen in secret admiration of the man she had known so intimately for one sweet, glorious night, was soon over. Hawke found herself pinned to the wall with his hand squeezing her windpipe and she started struggling wildly, certain now that he would kill her, that he had been pushed past his limit and he would snap her neck like a child snaps a wishing bone. In an instinctive effort to free herself before she suffocated, her knee shot up and found its mark between his legs. Immediately his eyes widened and watered and the tight grip on her neck loosened enough for her to slump to the floor, drawing in gulp after gulp of blessedly cool air, while he let out a whine and fell to his knees, his hands cupping his groin.

 

She was scared now, scared for her life as she tried to draw deep enough breaths to clear the black spots swimming in front of her eyes. One part of her brain was whimpering in fear and the other was calmly assuring her that this was Fenris _, Fenris would never hurt you_. Reeling, caught between her instinctive trust of him and her panic,  she clutched on her throat that was already darkening  and tried to crawl blindly towards the door, towards her staff resting against the wall next to it, to safety. She could hear Fenris groaning in pain, cradling his aching genitals, but she dared not look at his direction. She was scared; scared of the same man she loved and now that the shock and the confusion were wearing off her heart had started aching. She hadn’t realised he hated her. She had hoped- oh, Lord how she had hoped- that one day he would return to her, that he would one day overcome the label of mage he had slapped on her to see the woman that loved him underneath. But it wasn’t just a label, it wasn’t just his prejudice. He genuinely, really hated her. Maker, she had to get out of here, before her breaking heart was ripped out and presented to her.

 

She shrieked when a hand grasped her ankle and in then her fear subsided to be replaced by anger once more; blasted, blighted, fucking idiot of an elf! She had given him everything and now he was attacking her. Well, he could kill her, but she wasn’t going down without a fight. She was the Champion of Kirkwall, not some feeble female trembling before an irate male. She kicked out with all her strength and heard him draw a pained breath.

 

“Let me go!” she shouted, still kicking him with her soft soled boots, landing blows to his hand, the side of his neck, his face, and noting with satisfaction that she managed to split his lip as well. She used a mind blast that made him slide against the floor on his back and bang his head on the wall, and watched in awe as he just shook his head to clear a blow that would have rendered anyone else unconscious. Once again a little voice in her mind commended on his stamina, and how strong he was, _and oh, Lord and Maker, watch those muscles ripple, look at that corded neck, look at those smouldering eyes...No stop that!_ she admonished herself and concentrated instead on the anger rising inside her.

 

Fenris growled. He wiped the blood running down his chin from his split lip and smirked as he brought his finger to his mouth and licked the blood off.

 

She got his message, loud and clear.

 

_Little girl, you are screwed._

 

She scampered on all fours to the door; she never made it there. A heavy weight crashed on her, sending her face down on the floor.

 

Panic gave her strength; twisting wildly underneath him, she started clawing and punching him with all her strength, trying to dislodge him. He hissed as her nails scored down his face, then grasped both her hands in his and slammed them on the floor over her head. He used his weight to stop her wild thrashing and entangled her legs with his, effectively pining her down, and she bucked and thrashed, incensed that it had taken him so little effort to subdue her, trying desperately to stifle the little _purring_ voice in her brain that rejoiced in having him cover her.

 

The minute his body covered hers though, all anger fled, at the look of sheer panic in her eyes, and the realisation he was the cause of it. Shame mortified him; he had hit her. The blasted mage had dared use magic without his permission but he’d had no excuse hitting her. He opened his mouth to apologise but she let loose a stream of curses and obscenities that made his ears blush. She shimmied underneath him, trying once again to break loose, the thought of using magic not even crossing her anger-fogged mind.

 

“Hold still,” he spat, but she was too angry to hear him, to realise he had calmed down and she was in no immediate danger; her body had started heating  up to him, against her will, despite her anger, and she was suddenly afraid that she would notice the frantic beating of her heart more than she was actually afraid of him hurting her. She continued bucking and trying to push him off her, her muscles trembling with the strain.

 

“Get off me!” she shouted. “You shit for brains, murdering bigot! GET. OFF. ME!”

 

Fenris pushed down with all his strength, making her breath whoosh out of her lungs, until she grew still. “Calm down, Hawke!” he hissed. “Stop fighting me.”

Her eyes snapped to his then. Green met molten gold, and they kept each other’s gaze, silently still challenging each other.

 

She was the one to turn away first.

 

“You hit me,” she whispered, her bright yellow eyes suddenly shining with what seemed to be angry, indignant tears. “Let me go. You hit me.” And then she twisted her hips wildly to the side, trying to make him release her legs so she could kick him.

 

“I shall hit you again, unless you stop thrashing and calm down.” He accentuated the last two words by pushing down on her even harder and she rolled her hips upward, instinctively trying to make the pressure ease.

 

Instant, hot arousal suffused him.

 

Her warm, womanly centre was pressing against his groin and he grew perfectly still, willing his body not to respond to the memory of just how hot and wet that spot on her body could get.

 

Liquid heat. Wetness. Incredible, amazing smoothness. Hardness sliding into softness, like a knife sinking into honey. Acceptance, and a soft womanly core wrapping around him and drawing him in, to a place that felt like home, like a scabbard welcoming the sword it was made for. Subtle thighs wrapping around him, gentle moans in his ear. He steeled himself against the memory, but it was too late, his body was already betraying him and hardening for her.

 

Cursing slowly, he bit his lip to stifle a moan as she started bucking again, new sensations now assaulting his senses. Her breasts were thrust up because of the way he had been holding her, and he could feel the sharp points of her nipples rasp against his skin, separated only by her robes. He could feel the pert globes mould against his pecks and he suddenly felt the urge to rub against her like a big cat. Her breath was fanning his face, and her scent was incredibly strong, the adrenaline pumping through her making her sweat. Even that was erotic, as her heated skin gave out her subtle scent; rosewater and woman.

 

“Hawke,” he rasped. “Stop moving, if you know what is good for you.”

 

She replied with a stream of profanities and bucked even harder against him, making his blood boil as hips rolled upwards to press against his straining erection. Maker. He was going to lose it.

 

“Stop. Moving.”

 

“Make me.” She challenged and he closed his eyes, trying to control his raging libido. Slowly, relentlessly, he pressed his groin against her and thrust to let her know what effect she had on him.

 

“Oh...” she breathed, her mouth falling open in surprise and her eyes as wide as saucers once the hardness settling against her core finally registered. She blushed. _Oh, my._

 

“Yes,” he nearly moaned. “Oh. Now, stay still.” He watched a dreamy-eyed look cross her eyes, and she unconsciously bit her bottom lip, giving him a glimpse of her pink tongue. He wanted to chase that tongue back into her mouth, suck it into his own mouth, bite and worry that plump lip of hers... No. He had to resist. He would make sure she was calm before getting up, just to avoid any more blows to his family jewels and then he would apologise for losing his head and drive her off. He closed his eyes for a second, trying to force his lower brain to listen to the logic of his higher one.

 

Hawke smiled then, acceptance and determination evident in the way the frown on her face disappeared and the a small smile, impish and mischievous, curled her lips. _Oh, I will have you again, my stubborn, handsome elf_ , she thought. _I will have you again. I'm not giving up_. She pushed gently against his hips and her breath caught at how aroused he was. _Well. At least that part of him doesn’t hate me._

 

“No permanent damage to the little guy, then?” she smirked. “I’ll have to hit you harder next time.”

 

“Little?” Her jibe found its mark unerringly as his male ego protested. He narrowed his eyes and leaned down,  his breath caressing her ear and making her shiver. “If I am not mistaken, this _'little guy,'_ " and he pressed himself against her core once more, "had a certain little mage whimpering for more."

 

She smiled then and her eyelids lowered in a coy, come-hither expression that made his blood boil and bubble. “A fluke. I bet you can’t do it again,” she challenged and Fenris’ pride took another beating. He growled at her in warning.

 

 “I’ll let you get up now, Hawke...Venhedis.” She had moved again. She had deliberately rolled her hips against his, testing his resolve. He growled and she sighed, sealing her fate. With a few economical movements, his one hand trailed down to hurriedly yank at her robes until they were pooling around her waist and then he used the same hand to pull at the leather laces that were holding his breaches closed; he released his aching member and ripped her smallclothes off her. That was all the indication he gave her of his intentions and the only warning; with the next breath he took and before she had time to protest, he had sunk inside her to the hilt, a ragged moan of relief leaving him at the feeling of being inside her, more perfect in reality than it could ever be in memory.

 

Hawke keened in distress and shock. His entry had hurt, and his size was something that after nearly three years she had to fight to adjust to. But she felt her body give soft fluttering pluses of acceptance, as if her inner muscles had recognised their master and welcomed him home. She arched up, taking him in more completely, and wetness flooded her; wetness and heat, starting at her centre and spreading out in concentric circles, numbing her, making her pliant, releasing the tension in her muscles. A wave of want darkened her eyes, and her breath hitched on his name.

 

“Fenris...” she sighed and his eyes snapped to her, darkened so that only a pale green ring remained. She read incredible hunger and desire in those eyes, hunger that in turn fed hers until it was all she could think about, all she cared about.  

 

He held her eyes as he remained poised above her, not moving, just relishing the feeling of being inside her; then he groaned, a deep, agonised sound, rumbling in his chest, as he pulled slightly back and then thrust home with brutal force. They moaned together and he let go of her hands to support himself on his hands, his arching back sending her impossibly deep inside her.

 

“Dear Maker!” she keened and her thighs lifted as if on their own to wrap around his slim hips, holding him to her as he started pounding inside her, his length withdrawing until only the swollen tip was inside her and then sliding inside her to reach the entrance of her womb, rasping against sensitive nerve endings and creating a maelstrom where pleasure and pain mixed to a heady, volatile mix that was soon going to ignite and set her ablaze.  

 

The small traces of anger that still lingered from their fight, along with three years of denied desire and daily frustration, were enough to make their coupling almost violent in its ferocity. Her hands, now free, clawed at his tunic until it was left in shreds, and then roamed his flesh, oblivious of his markings, leaving bleeding half crescent marks and bloody scratches. His teeth found her neck, nipping and suckling and downright biting hard on the tender skin; the pain and the violence made the pleasure worse, not less, adding that little edge of danger that made adrenaline pump harder in their veins and the desire burn hotter.

 

“Hawke...” her name left his lips on an breathless moan and she answered it with whimpered pleas to give it to her harder, faster, more, more, more. _Fenris_. _More_.

 

Growling like the wild beast he was named after, he turned her on her stomach, slipped one hand underneath her to cup one of her breasts and slid inside her again. The new position made her even tighter, impossibly tight, and he heard himself cry out her name again, as her sheath clamped down on him like a vice.

 

His body was laying on top of hers, covering her like a warm, sexy blanket, every inch of her in direct contact with hers. He slammed her legs shut, making the tight sheath he was sinking in even tighter and just rocked against her backside. Hawke tried to raise her torso off the grimy floor to arch her back, desperate for his thrusts to get deeper, but he slammed his body on top of hers and interlaced his fingers with hers, holding her palms steady on the floor. He nipped at the exposed nape of her neck and then his mouth was on her ear, his heaving breath rasping. She keened and whimpered again, his name leaving her again like a plea for mercy.

 

“Whimpering already?” he muttered hotly in her ear, his velvety voice making her body break in goosebumps. “Beg me,” he pushed down on her body, and then rocked his hips, giving her swallow, languid strokes instead of the merciless shafting she craved for. “Cry for me, mage, whimper and beg.”

 

“Fenris...” she refused to give in, despite the shudders of lust and need racking her body, “go fuck yourself.”

 

He growled, her defiance making him smile darkly.

 

“Wrong answer, little mage,” he snarled, before pulling her to her knees and hands in one fluid motion and slamming inside her, making her keen. “Wrong answer.”

 

If she had something to say, it was lost in the scream that tore from her throat as he pulled slowly out and then rammed back inside her, his fingers tightening on her hips to keep her steady. His swollen manhood was an iron-hard length of ecstasy plunging inside her now, hitting the end of her in each stroke; she shrieked and wordlessly begged for more, lunging back into each stroke, driving him even deeper, harder, faster.

 

Fenris replied by gripping her even tighter, almost hard enough to bruise but she didn't care. Pleasure, joy, absolute fucking _bliss,_ filled every corner of her soul. She looked at him over her shoulder and the sight of him, so wild, so out-of control, his head thrown back and his whole body corded and trembling with pleasure was enough to tilt her over the edge. She drew one, two, then three convulsive breaths as her body started to spasm, then screamed as the tremors spread; her knees turned to rubber and incredible, heart-stopping ecstasy curled her toes and set her body on fire. For a few moments, she felt disconnected from her body, the strength of orgasm hurtling her among the stars; her consciousness was jerked back into her body as she felt Fenris tense behind her, his member swelling even more, nearly doubling in size, before she was flooded with the heat of his release.

 

A second wave hit her, and she welcomed it keening in distress; surely this was the one that was going to kill her, this was the one that would fry her brain. “Oh, Maker!” she wailed as it surged over her, took over her whole existence, set her on fire, bathed her in ice. Magic rose from her body, unbidden, and surrounded them with an eerie aura; his markings flared in response as he roared his pleasure to the ceiling. Fenris slumped on her back, moaning softly, his member still twitching inside her and spurting jet after jet of his seed. She whispered his name and his arms wrapped around her, grounding her, while his chest heaved and his muscles trembled.

 

“Are we alive?” she murmured once she had found breath enough to speak and he smiled into her flesh, his head buried between her shoulders.

 

“Barely,” he whispered back, his mind reluctantly leaving the foggy pleasure behind to worry: what would happen now? What would she expect of him? Did this change everything?

 

She turned in his arms and he was surprised to see her sweet, loving smile; surprised and shamed, because he could not find it in himself to accept it, his own prejudice and fear holding him back.

 

But Hawke just cupped his face and with a smile devoid of anything but acceptance, stroked his cheek, before laying a gentle kiss on his lips. It was the first and only kiss of the night and its sweetness took his breath away, it hammered another chink into the stone wall he had erected around his heart to keep her out.

 

“I hate you, Fenris,” she drawled, her breath still hoarse from her pleasured screams and he smiled his lopsided grin before laying his own, similarly tender kiss on her lips.

 

“I hate you too, Hawke,” he mumbled and she sighed. “I will always hate you.”

She smiled and kissed him again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic might never have finished had it not been for my amazing friend, Letticiae. I was stumped for an ending and she provide the amazing “I hate you idea”. Kudos where they are due!


End file.
